Stone November sky hangs heavy and sullen,
Cold and damp as a church crypt and just as merry.
God! Even the seagulls overhead are quiet, wings
Sagging as they cut through the ice-laden rain that
Falls on the bare land laced with drifting wood smoke.
Somewhere in the distance dogs bark and my soul lurches,
Searches for a memory misplaced but not entirely forgotten,
When on a day such as this I sat as still as I do now
Observing the dying days of the year, mouldering leaves
Underfoot and the frozen, nipped, muffled faces of those
Passing to the echoes of mournful howls.
©JEFT 2007
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